


supply and demand

by fangirl_squee



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, lem and devar invent fantasy snapchat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 15:18:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11164593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl_squee/pseuds/fangirl_squee
Summary: When Lem hears that illusionary magic is against the Pattern, he worries that he and Devar have been found out. Luckily, words can have multiple meanings.





	supply and demand

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to maddie for betaing (and some Very Good additions)

He and Devar had been going back and forth like this for a while, ever since Lem left the Archives. They've started to get pretty good at it, sending messages around the same time each evening so they don't get lost as they both move about in the world.

 

It feels a bit like a light pressure on the inside of his skull, a bit tingly and mostly pleasant. It doesn’t take too long now for Lem to spot whatever the message is, pebbles or thread or droplets of water moving into place to spell out innocuous things like ‘hope u r well’ or ‘travel safe’ or ‘got a new assignment’.

 

Lem's sure it's probably a frowned upon to use pattern magic so frivolously, but he's done quite a few things the New Archives frowns upon, so he doesn't feel too bad about it. It's nice to get to talk to Devar; nice to not feel so completely cut off from his home, even if the messages are short. 

 

They get a bit creative with it, tweaking the pattern as it’s sent, getting as full of a message as it’s possible to get with few words. They give each message sensation - touch, colour, taste, smell. It’s only very light, more like a memory of a sense than the real thing, but it’s nice. An extra layer woven into words.

 

No sound yet, but Lem’s working on that. Devar says he thinks Lem might not being able to do it, since he’s using music to send the message in the first place, an interesting discussion cut short by the wind blowing the twigs Devar was talking with away.

 

Devar’s next message feels like fingers twining with Lem’s, and Lem’s so startled he almost forget to read the pebbles as they crowd together. The sensation remains long after the pebbles have rolled away from one another.

 

Lem's messages back are kept short - it's hard to send long or detailed messages via long distance pattern magic, especially outdoors. He would try to send multiple messages, but he's worried about getting Devar in trouble.  _ Devar's  _ worried about him getting Devar in trouble. (Lem supposes that's fair, given how he's currently on the run from Morbash.) 

 

It was Devar that worked out how to send images, the thread of Lem's scarf unravelling itself on a table and reforming as a brightly-patterned shirt. The colours of Lem’s scarf remain the same, but Lem can see the bright colours in his mind, overlaying the thread. He feels, just for a moment, the whisper of the fabric on his skin, light and airy, before the sensation of his own travel-worn clothes overtakes them again. 

 

Lem sends back a picture of the ocean, weaving the smell of the fresh salt air in between notes on the return message. Devar’s reply is tinged with something like a frown. Lem gets the impression of Devar wrinkling his forehead, which he doesn’t think Devar meant to send - pattern magic does things you forget to account for, sometimes. Lem sends back a question mark.

 

_ sometimes I wish I’d gone w/ you _

 

Lem stares at the message hard, until the threads have long since collapsed back into the fabric of his scarf.

 

_ sometimes I wish you had too _

 

It changes things, to be able to communicate via sensations and images as well as words, adds another layer to things that Lem can't properly identify, but that makes his heart speed up just a little when he feels that familiar pressure of an incoming message, makes him smile during the day when he thinks of them. It feels like Devar is just in the next room instead of far away across Hieron, ready for Lem to knock on his door late at night and ask him to do something unwise. Lem hopes Devar might agree to it next time around. 

 

 

Devar sends him a message when he’s stopped at a tavern, the droplets of mead and beer on the bar trickling together to form a shaky image of a bottle and a book, the light aftertaste of wine in Lem's mouth. Lem hum, fingers tracing shapes through the liquid as he sends a return image of the tavern. It seems like they both have the night off.

 

They used to hang out on their nights off together in the New Archives. Lem’s glad they can still do it even though they’re so far apart, and he sends that back to Devar too. It’s probably too much. He’s sure Devar has plenty of other orcs to hang out with, but he’s two meads in and feeling a bit more courageous for it. And he does miss Devar. 

 

He wonders if Devar is sitting in the plush lounge at the very back on one of the reading rooms, the one behind the tall, musty bookshelves full of rock samples, where they used to study together. The messages are nice but it’s not the same as Devar sitting next to him. Lem closes his eyes for a moment, trying to recreate it in his mind, the smell of the old paper, the warmth of Devar’s shoulder against his.

 

The return message feels like the brush of a hand on his thigh, a whisper in his ear. Whatever the message the sensation was sent with it is lost as Lem jumps, spilling his drink over the bar and himself. He swears, half at the situation and half at his own clumsiness. 

 

The bartender doesn’t seem too fussed about the spilled mead, but Lem figures that’s probably a sign he should call it a night. The tavern has rooms available, which is good, because walking any further seems like an extremely difficult task right now.

 

_ sorry _ he spells out, humming and tapping on the frame of his bed with one hand as he strips off his mead-soaked pants,  _ missed ur last message pls repeat _

 

He doesn't have to wait long, the laces and belt loops of his jacket wriggling out until they spell out something on the floor. 

 

_ wondering what you look like where you are, can’t picture you in a rowdy tavern _

 

It's accompanied by the same light pressure on his leg, but with the edge of laughter. He can picture Devar, grinning at him and eyes glittering with barely-held-back laughter, and it makes Lem want to laugh too. He does, the noise sounding loud in the quiet of his empty room. 

 

_ I’m not anymore _ , Lem hums, sending out his reply,  _ I went up to my room _

 

He probably, unintentionally, gives Devar the feeling of cold air on his bare legs and chest. 

 

Well, mostly unintentionally.

 

There was a night, once, before Lem left, where they’d started off studying with wine and ended up mostly studying the wine instead, and they’d both been slumped down into the shoulder, leaning against each other lazily. At one point, Devar had put his hand down to rest on Lem’s thigh, and even when he’d raise it to make a lazy gesture in the air, it would come down to rest back on Lem. The air had been warm and still and Devar’s lips, when they’d brushed against Lem’s, had been incredibly soft.

 

Of course, the night after that one, Lem saw a violin he couldn’t bear not to touch, so they didn’t really ever get a chance to talk about it.

 

Lem’s on the edge of falling asleep when Devar finally sends a reply. He’s sacrificed the words for the sensation, and Lem feels the almost-touch of hands running down his chest, of soft lips against his neck.

 

Lem’s gasp sounds deafening in the quiet of the room. He rubs his own hands over the path the message had taken, pressing two fingers over where he’d felt the lips.

 

Clumsily, he leans over, plucking out a rough tune on his violin where it’s lying on the floor, focusing on how his body feels under the sheets. He falls asleep, heavy and dreamless, warmed by the phantom feeling of Devar’s hands.

 

 

Sending messages while travelling is difficult. He doesn’t  _ need _ privacy for the message but he does prefer it. Not that any of Devar’s recent messages have touched on the feelings of that night in the bar, reverting back mostly to pleasantries and brief updates, although even those quick messages don’t feel as superficial as before.

 

Sometimes he’ll get a glimpse of what Devar is doing - the smell of a warm stew, or the feeling of a quill in his hands. Other times Lem isn’t sure if the added layer was intentionally sent, the warmth of a hand pressing on his shoulder, Devar warm laugh ringing in his ears. In truth, it’s hard to tell if he’s imagining that part of the message, and he can’t very well  _ ask _ .

 

Lem slips up occasionally too - sending back the sensation of his hand in Devar’s, the warm feeling that shivers down his spine at Devar’s laughter. Devar doesn’t comment on that part of his messages. Perhaps they’re not going through. Lem’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed.

 

After one exceptionally long day of travelling, Lem settles down for a night of sleeping on the cold ground. He’s not feeling his best (maybe why  _ it _ slips through into the message when he’d otherwise be able to hold onto it) when he sends his perfectly crafted, perfectly innocuous message to Devar, it leaves him with the sensation of cupping Devar’s cheek in his hand, his breath over Devar’s lips.

 

Lem puts his head in his hands immediately after he sends it, rolling to face away from the group so they won’t notice his burning cheeks.

 

It’s entirely his own fault of course. If you’re not concentrating on a specific sensation, whatever sensation you’re feeling strongest gets sent as a placeholder, and he hadn’t been. Tiredness, mostly, and Devar had sent a message about the sorting of a rock collection, and it had made Lem think again about that night long ago: how Devar’s reading voice bounced off of the rocks, how their tusks had bumped together awkwardly and Devar had huffed a laugh at Lem’s apology, pulling Lem towards him again. 

 

Lem bit his lip, waiting, but there was no responding message from Devar. Lem shifted on his bedroll, eyes searching the forest floor for signs, but it was impossible to tell in the dim light. He shut his eyes tight. It was entirely possible his feeling of exhaustion had been the sensation sent. Devar had probably received it and gone to sleep, thinking Lem was doing the same.

 

Lem sighed. When he closed his eyes he could swear he could smell the musty scent of the library.

 

 

Something woke Lem in the early hours of the morning. There was the fuzzy, static-y feeling in his brain -- the feeling he associated with Devar more than pattern magic these days. The leaves to his left rustle, catching his attention.

 

It took him a moment to see it, squinting around in the darkness for what the message might be. The leaves shift, wriggling into place, until they form a reasonable resemblance to Devar, reclining backwards. A twig rises slowly from the pile, tilting upwards, but it's not until the leaves of Devar’s hand flex and curl around it that Lem's half-asleep mind properly understands the message. 

 

Lem gasped, then covered his mouth with his hand, looking behind him to the others. They were still asleep, as far as he can tell. Slowly, Lem lifted himself up by one elbow, letting the fuzzy sensation in his mind blot out his thoughts. It almost had the edge of something else to it, the feeling of phantom hands on his skin to match what the image of Devar in the leaves is doing. Instead of dying away after a few moments as the feeling of their messages had before, the usual ghostly touch of Devar’s hands seemed only to solidify with time.

 

Lem wondered what would happen if he lifted to Devar-leaves to a slightly more private location. He was pretty sure it would break the connection the Devar. Lem’s breath caught in his throat and he watched one of Devar’s leafy hands run over its chest. The leaf Devar pressed its head into its shoulder, and Lem felt Devar’s warm exhale against his shoulder. Lem extremely did not want to break this connection with Devar right now.

 

He swallowed hard, hips rocking forward into the ghost of sensation as he watched the leaf-Devar’s hand work. It felt as though someone was  _ almost _ touching him, the warmth of a hand running an inch over his skin. It didn’t matter how closely he leant towards it, the touch wasn’t there, always maddeningly just a little further. 

 

“ _ Oh Devar _ ,” breathed Lem.

 

Devar can’t hear him, he knew that, but the light, fuzzy pressure in his head feels like it pushed the words out without him meaning to. He pressed back with his mind against the fuzzy feeling, forcing his quiet whine into a melody, trying to reach for something more solid.

 

_ Lem  _ whispered a voice next to his ear in time with his hand, Devar’s voice,  _ Lem Lem Lem. _

 

He can feel Devar tip over the edge, hear his bitten-off moan echo in Devar’s room at the Archives, the waves of it flowing through their connection and into Lem. Lem bites his lip so hard his almost draws blood, spilling over his hand.

 

As Lem lies there, trying to quieten his breathing, he feels the faint brush of soft lips on his forehead. When he looks back down, he can’t even tell where the pile of Devar-leaves were. There’s no sign anything happened at all.

 

(Well, almost no sign - Lem very quietly gets up and washes a few key items off in a nearby stream, but no one needs to know about that.)

 

 

It happens a few more times after that, not enough to be a Pattern, but enough to be significant. Lem sneaks off from the group to hide behind a group of trees, letting Devar’s whispered words guide his hand as he works himself. Another time he braids and unbraids a rope to keep the pattern going as he focuses on sending through the sensation of mapping out Devar’s body with his hands and tongue. The sensations still aren’t substantial to leave any lasting impressions, but they make Lem’s face feel warm through the day, when he thinks of them.

 

Even when their messages are innocent, they’re accompanied now by casually intimate sensations. Devar puts a hand on his arm when he asks about Lem’s day, Lem puts his arms around Devar’s shoulders as they discuss musical theory. Thinking about these messages make Lem feel warm in a different way, something unclenching in his chest, making his shoulders feel lighter, like sunlight is shining down on him instead of the moons.

 

 

Lem wasn’t really expecting to see Devar in Rosemerrow. Lem knew he was there, of course, but everything was so rushed, and then another murder investigation, and - 

 

Devar looked  _ good _ \- different than Lem remembered, but Lem supposed that he did too.

 

His laugh was the same though, and it made Lem feel the same as it did when they were together in the New Archives - full of light, like something was being lifted from his shoulders by the sound.

 

There was a lull in conversation- not an awkward one, more like a warm pause as they both sipped their tea, putting off the inevitable packing that had to be done. Devar nudged his foot against Lem’s under the table.

 

Devar smiled across at him. “You look good. Adventuring suits you.”

 

Lem smiled back, feeling shy. “You look good too. Less, um, leafy.”

 

Devar laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh, sorry about that.”

 

“Don't be,” said Lem, probably a little too fast. 

 

Devar gave him a look, eyes going half-lidded, a smile slowly forming. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” said Lem, feeling his face flush, “It was- good.”

 

“Just good?” said Devar, grinning.

 

“Well, you were just leaves,” said Lem.

 

“Well,  _ you  _ were just words, when you sent one of you,” replied Devar.

 

“What are you-oh,” said Lem. His cheeks feel hotter than the water they used for the tea. “When I… from the tavern? I was words?”

 

“I was  _ trying _ to get some reading done, man,” said Devar. “That book got  _ wrecked _ .”

 

“Sorry,” mumbled Lem.

 

Devar reached over and covers one of Lem’s hands with his. “Hey. You know I didn’t mind, right?”

 

“Oh,” said Lem, “yeah, of course, I knew.”

 

Devar huffed a laugh. “You know, King, sometimes you’re kind of ridiculous.”

 

Lem would reply, he meant to, really, but then Devar was leaning forward and pressing his lips to Lem’s and  _ oh _ , this is so much better than a pile of leaves, so much better than a whisper. His lips are just as soft as Lem remembers them being.

 

He must have said that last part out loud, because Devar laughed again, moving around to Lem’s side of the table to kiss him again. Lem slipped his arms around Devar, pulling Devar down into his lap. Lem’s hands finally get a chance to roam up and down Devar’s back for real and Lem revelled in the physical feeling of it, committing it to memory for future messages. 

 

Devar sighed into Lem’s mouth. One of his hands rested on Lem’s shoulder, the thumb rubbing small circles over Lem’s collarbone, while the other worked it’s way into Lem’s hair, Devar’s blunt nails scraping over his scalp.

 

Lem’s hands come to rest at Devar’s waist, pulling Devar closer to him. It must be the right move, because Devar sighed into his mouth again.

 

“You know,” said Devar, “I haven’t packed up my room just yet.”

 

“I could help,” said Lem.

 

Devar smiled, standing to pull Lem towards the stairs. “I had a  _ feeling _ you might be able to.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on twitter/tumblr: mariusperkins


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